by Chris Knopf
“It’s already done. Call me when you’re ready.”
I spared him all the dumb jokes about needing hands-on customer service. It was too easy and I didn’t have the time. I was already naked and ready to jump in the shower.
On the way over to police headquarters in Hampton Bays, I called Sandy Kalandro, hoping at least to have a meeting confirmed before the interview with Autumn Antonioni.
“Hello, Miss Swaitkowski. Eunice said you’d be calling,” said a voice both silken and deep. Even sonorous, and a tad resonant.
“It’s Ms., but you can call me Jackie,” I said, lowering my voice a notch, trying to get on equal footing.
“I’ve sent a courier over to get her signature. Though I’m not sure this is the wisest course of action.”
I felt my soaring heart flutter in the wind.
“Interesting,” I said. My favorite word when talking to other lawyers.
“But Eunice feels this would be a distraction for the firm.”
“I’ll be sure not to let that happen,” I said sincerely.
“How long have you been working with Sergey? I was under the impression that Horace Golden was representing.”
“Horace died a while ago,” I said, and didn’t add, “which you’d know if you gave a shit about a fellow attorney,” as I wanted to.
“Yes, of course. I think the most expeditious approach here would be to do as Eunice suggests and make you coadministrator of the Pontecello estate. This keeps it simple.”
Heart and soul both caught the updraft.
“As you wish, counselor. I want to keep it as simple for you as possible.”
“Based on what Eunice has told me, I can’t attest to the estate’s ability to compensate you for your efforts. But I’m sure there’s enough to cover out-of-pocket.”
Hah! I thought. Mystery solved. If old Sandy was on the case, Eunice would be lugging his hourly rate. Let’s get the dumb girl and hook her into a contingency. Case closed, problem solved.
“Like I said, let’s keep it simple,” I said, and didn’t say all the other things racing through my mind that on other less important occasions would be finding voice.
I wanted to get to the Southampton Police HQ early enough to avoid bumping into the personal banker from Harbor Trust. I should have thought that through better, realizing personal bankers would be cautious and deliberate people who would want to get to a strange new place well ahead of schedule. So I managed to bump into her anyway, literally, as we reached the front door at exactly the same time.
“Sorry,” said a tall, big-chested woman in an aquamarine pantsuit carrying an old-fashioned Samsonite briefcase. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Me, neither. Too much on my mind.”
“Me, too,” she said.
I ushered her through the door, then stood back while they let her through to the back office. I decided not to tell Sullivan about the encounter. He wouldn’t like me talking to his witness before he did, no matter how innocently.
Joe was just settling her down at the table when I got to the observation room behind the one-way mirror. He was explaining that he liked to record the conversation as well as take notes so he wouldn’t miss anything. He said he wanted her to feel comfortable. She told him comfortable was the last thing she was feeling, but not to worry about the recording. She just hoped to get a copy.
“So I can prove to my husband this actually happened.”
He told her absolutely, just had to clear it with the boss.
“All we’re going to do is ask you to verify that the bank records you brought us are those we requested in the subpoena. To the best of your knowledge,” said Joe. “Simple.”
Autumn was doing her best to avoid looking at herself in the mirror. I’d watched plenty of interrogations where the subjects couldn’t keep their eyes off themselves, the men worse than the women.
She put the old briefcase on the table and opened it. She took out several stacks of paper of different sizes and shapes, each held together with a rubber band. Each stack had a cover sheet describing the contents. Joe had her read off all the information, specifying if the reports were printed statements, correspondence, or microfilm copies of canceled checks and statements more than five years old, which was the bank’s limit on holding paper. This took about fifteen minutes, and I have to say it wasn’t the most exhilarating police interview I’d ever witnessed.
“These are all copies, of course,” she said as they wrapped it up. “We have to hold the originals for Surrogate’s Court and the probate process.”
Joe nodded and said, “See, that’s all I wanted to know,” as he flipped through his casebook. “Simple.”
Autumn looked a lot more comfortable, and stayed that way even when Joe said, still looking down at his notes, “Just a couple quick questions to establish evidentiary integrity. You’re the one who put these records together on the instruction of your supervisor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have your name already. Your supervisor’s name is?”
“Meryl Johnson.”
“Did anyone else assist in preparing this material?”
“No, sir. They told me I had to do it all on my own.”
“Not very nice of them, was it?” he asked with an avuncular smile.
It was an odd sensation watching Joe Sullivan be kindly and reassuring.
She smiled back. “No, sir.”
“So they’ve been in your possession at all times? No one else held or examined any of these records after they first came into your possession.”
“No, sir.”
“But you, of course, examined them carefully to reassure yourself that you had the right material.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe looked up from his notes.
“You’re a very careful lady.”
“I work in a bank,” she said. “We’re all very careful.”
“You got that right. So, what was your impression?”
“Sorry?”
“What did you think when you looked over these statements? Was it how you remembered the general flow when you were taking care of the Pontecellos?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m gonna be going through everything, of course, but it’d be helpful if you could give me the big picture,” he said.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. They had an investment account when I first started at the bank. That was our Harvest Fund, document category Six B, you’ll remember.” She pointed partway down the stack of papers. “But last year they sold the investments and moved the funds into a cash account. This account received periodic wire transfers from their brokers in the City.” She repeated the name of a well-known institution. Joe nodded.
“So, these were regular infusions.”
She shook her head.
“Oh, no. Always different amounts that arrived on no particular schedule. Some quite substantial, others minor. I assumed it was just another investment account like they had at the bank. Very routine for our sort of customers.”
“Okay. So what would happen to the money after it got there? Were the withdrawals on a schedule?”
She smiled a different kind of smile, more one of reminiscence.
“Mrs. Pontecello would always have us redistribute the funds a day or two after they arrived.”
“You’ve mentioned Mrs. Pontecello. Did you also deal with her husband?”
She shook her head. “I never met him. And she never said a word about him. I wouldn’t have known they were married if I hadn’t seen his name on all their accounts.”
Joe cocked his head and, for the first time, allowed a sidelong glance at the one-way mirror.
“Really? How ’bout that. Which document stack are those wire transfers in?” he asked.
Autumn took the top half and turned them over on the table. Then pulled off a few sheets of paper held by a paper clip.
“These are all the outbound wire transfers. Not very complicate
d, since they all went to the same place.”
This time the stenographer and I got a full look from Joe Sullivan. It was obvious enough to cause Autumn to look over, too, then dart her eyes back to the table. Since all she’d seen was herself in the mirror I could hear her thoughts as well, which were, Oh, God, is that what I really look like? What’s going on with my hair? I’ve got to lose some weight.
“E-Spree Traders?” asked Joe as he studied the records. He stood. “Sorry. I just remembered I had to check in with my boss,” he said to her. “Just be a second.”
He left Autumn to sit alone at the table. I met him out in the hall.
“Since I’m not her sort of customer, maybe you could tell me what sort of bank this is,” he said, handing me the papers.
I didn’t have to look. I had recognized it when he said the name.
“E-Spree is not a bank. It’s an online brokerage. Everything’s done on the Internet.”
“I know what ‘online’ means.”
“It’s for day traders. Big and little, though all you usually hear about are the little guys after they blow through their life savings,” I said as I studied the records. Autumn was right, E-Spree was the only place the money went. Lots of money. I flipped the pages to get to the bottom line: $1,286,000. Lots and lots of money.
“Those nutty Pontecellos, eh?” I said to Joe. “Loved to live on the edge.”
“More like on the brink,” he said, before starting back to the interrogation room. I stopped him by pinching a piece of his shirt.
“Wait a second,” I said. “Is this all the stuff the Pontecellos had at the bank? Sergey said there was a safe-deposit box.”
He nodded, vaguely annoyed at the complication, but he had the smile back on when he rejoined Autumn.
“I checked my records,” he said. “I understand your clients also had a safe-deposit box?”
Autumn put the tips of her fingers to her lips.
“Oh, dear. I forgot to mention that,” she said. “Meryl asked me to tell you we can only open it in the presence of the probate authorities. Since no one has contacted us yet, the box is still sealed.”
Joe pretended to stretch, and as he did, looked over at me standing behind the mirror. His face said, Okay, I asked, she answered. An answer I liked so much I barely paid attention to his other questions, until he got to the last one—how much did the Pontecellos actually have left over after all the deposits and withdrawals?
Autumn put the stacks back together, though now at perpendicular angles so she’d be able to get the outbound wire transfers back into their original slot, then pulled out the largest bound stack.
“This was their regular checking account. If you look here, you’ll see the last check, which was for $163. Leaving a balance of $2,618, which allows them to stay above the minimum to receive free checking.”
Not exactly broke, but close enough.
Joe put his finger on another part of the statement.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Autumn stood up from the table to get a closer look.
“Oh, that’s our Special Savings. That’s where Mrs. Pontecello deposited the inbound wire transfers. It’s connected to their cash account, so it’s easier to wire back out through a single transaction.”
“Am I reading this number right?” he asked, sliding the passel of papers across the table.
“Yes, sir-$6,784,118.53.”
Since there was nobody else to share this moment with, I looked at the stenographer, but she just kept typing things into her laptop.
When Joe finally joined me in the observation room, I said, “You’re going to tell me what else is in there, aren’t you?”
“I might.”
“And what’s in the safe-deposit box.”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re going to tell me what the win/loss statements from the casino say.”
“I could.”
“And you’re going to be as nice to me as you were to Autumn from now on, now that I know you’re capable of niceness.”
“Definitely not. But I will tell you if I learn anything about your accident.”
“My vehicular assault,” I said, pointing as if my finger were simply a prelude for something with more impact.
“That, too.”
I needed to be in three places at once, which was one more than I could usually manage. I deferred the dream of diving into my computer at the office or hanging with Joe Sullivan and all those appetizing bank records and picked the place I most needed to go.
Sandy Kalandro’s office was just like mine in that it was on Montauk Highway, on the second floor of a row of shops. Where it differed was in every other way possible.
The receptionist was better and more professionally dressed than I’d ever been, and things went up from there. The smell of leather and oiled furniture was almost overpowering. The cream-colored walls and ceilings were so laden with moldings and fancy trim there was almost no room for the Early American landscapes, French beach scenes, and stern portraits of men in curly white wigs. The carpet was a deep green wool, which I imagined also smelled great, but I wasn’t about to drop to my hands and knees to check it out.
Though I could have since I was wearing my sturdy visit-the-cops outfit, which covered every inch of my body except for a little bit of neck and whatever part of my face managed to get through the frizzy hair. The foundation was a khaki pants suit, that I cleverly built on with a turtleneck, scarf, and penny loafers. Whether the runway model for Brooks Brothers Lady Executive Department sitting behind the walnut desk in the office foyer noticed, I’ll never know because I was busy digging another business card out of the crud at the bottom of my purse. When I found it I handed it to her. She held it by the edges, looked at it through the lower half of her glasses, and nodded. She pushed a button on her phone and indicated with a quick toss of her head that I should disappear into one of the massively overstuffed club chairs in the waiting area.
We managed to get through the entire transaction without saying a word to each other, which suited us both.
Kalandro had approached so quietly over the thick pile he startled me when he said, “Of course you’re Ms. Swaitkowski,” as he offered to shake hands.
I jumped up and grabbed his hand.
“I am. And I bet you’re Mr. Kalandro.”
“I am. We have our identities straight. Follow me.”
I followed him across the deep green sward into a conference room decorated in a maritime motif, complete with an actual helm from an old sailing vessel, with a gigantic oak wheel and a gleaming brass-enclosed compass.
“Oh captain, my captain,” I blurted out.
“First mate, technically. Marty Atkins is our most senior partner.”
“That’s quite a rig. Maybe someday we can take her out for a spin around East Hampton. Check out the legal eddies and currents.”
Kalandro was older than I’d thought he’d be–somewhere in his late sixties. He had a full head of unnaturally dark, wavy hair like Ronald Reagan’s, and a large gut that filled out his light yellow polo shirt. His pants were some kind of light gray silk or rayon, and he wore loafers, though without a place to put a penny.
His face was well tanned from recent months on the golf course or tennis courts or sailing waters. But his skin was lumpy and dotted with dark age spots, a sign of encroaching vulnerability.
“Eunice has signed the necessary documents to confer upon you coadministrator status,” he said without prelude in his basso profundo voice. I could almost feel it through the four inches of lacquer on the walnut conference table.
“I’m familiar with New York State probate,” I said, not adding that my experience was purely personal and drenched in grief, and thus largely lost in the haze of painful memory. “The most important items at this stage are copies of the death certificate. I need a stack of them, since I don’t know what I’ll be encountering as I work through the process.”
He bowed his h
ead in gracious agreement.
“Naturally. I believe for Mrs. Wolsonowicz the important thing is to arrive at a conclusion as expeditiously as possible.”
“We are in violent agreement,” I said, thinking correctly that this was the sort of statement an old windbag like Kalandro would like.
“Capital,” he said, upon which another well-turned-out office automaton glided in with a white legal envelope out of which she drew the necessary papers and laid them on the table. She held down the thin stack with a glossy black pen that weighed about forty pounds.
The document naming me co-administrator was short and to the point. I signed it and the photocopy first. Then I moved on to the much denser contracts that said my involvement extended exclusively to the matter of the Pontecello estate, and more to the point, stipulated that I would lay no claim to any asset, financial instrument, or property in the possession of Eunice Wolsonowicz. I crossed out “in the possession of” and wrote “belonging to,” then signed that one.
“Same difference, right?” I said to Kalandro, who raised his thick eyebrows but let it stand, probably because I didn’t touch the clause saying I’d be paid solely by the Pontecello estate, and should my fees exceed its liquidateable assets, then basically, tough darts.
That’d be some hefty bill, I thought, but kept it to myself as I got everything signed, back in the big white envelope, and stuffed under my arm.
Kalandro had watched me with the deliberate indifference of a man waiting for a traffic light to turn green. Now he almost came back to life, mustering the energy to hand me a separate sealed envelope on which someone had written “Will.”
“Eunice asked me to secure this after her sister died. You’ll note there are changes since the original was composed, so if you have questions, please don’t hesitate to ask,” he said as an automatic courtesy. I acted deeply grateful.
“That’s very generous of you. I certainly will. Well, actually, I have a couple quick ones right now, if you have a moment.”
He looked at the Big Ben on his wrist.
“A moment.”
“You have looked over the nontangible assets, I presume. Bank accounts, stock portfolios, etc.”
He smiled indulgently. “The police have secured that information as part of their investigation. However, Mrs. Wolsonowicz was privy to her sister’s financial disposition, which was less robust than one might suspect observing her lifestyle.”
